Miserable & Magical
by tania15
Summary: A cry sounds into the night, and Hermione Granger can't help but wonder at the source. What she finds will undoubtedly change her life, and send it spiraling in a new direction.Post-Hogwarts. Eventually Draco/Hermione. Four Years afer the Final Battle.


**Author's Note: The following prologue is a very rough introduction to a story idea that has been nagging at me as of late. To those interested in reading this story, you should be forewarned that I might alter the prologue once I've gotten a better idea of where I'm going with this story. I can't promise any frequent or timely updates as of yet, I'm still getting back into the swing of writting again.**

**Right off the bat, you all should know that this will be a Draco/Hermione fanfic. Its set just over four years after the final battle, and dismisses the Deathly Hallows epilogue. Though, if you continue reading, you might find some elements of the epilogue present in the fic. On another note, if your a fan of Astoria Greengrass, you might want to steer clear of this fic. I won't be portraying her in a sypathetic light.**

**In conscern to Ron Weasley... well, the question remains undecided as of yet. I cannot in good conscious promise that I won't repeatedly bash him over the head as the fic progresses... sorry.**

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**October 17th 2002, Wizarding London**

Astoria Malfoy scowled. The dank and dilapidated room before her covered in dust and grime. The floorboards were rotten. The windows were mostly all broken, and many had been boarded up as a result. To her left, a door hung onto its frame by a single rusted hinge. The walls were cracked from ceiling to floor, several holes littering the surfaces. Three lanterns had once been affixed in the room. Out of those three, only one remained functional. The second rested in a broken heap at her feet, the third lacked both the wick and oil necessary to light it. Several objects lay scattered about the floor, long since abandoned by their owner. The room smelled heavily of mold and decay, no doubt the result of some filthy animal having died, trapped inside the crumbled chimney.

Astoria turned up her nose, and harrumphed. With all the sentiment a Pureblood supremacist, and her Death Eater upbringing, the willowy blonde decisively concluded that the room itself must look not unlike any other which might be found in the homely shacks owned by all mudbloods and their filthy muggle relatives.

A diminutive cry broke her from her musing, and she frowned at her Italian, handmade, dragon-skin portmanteau. Astoria carelessly deposited the bag upon the dusty floorboards, its contents uttering a wounded screech, before swiftly quieting down.

For several seconds, the blonde stared in distaste at the portmanteau in question. She had no interest in seeing 'it' again, much less touching 'it'. However, she couldn't quite bring herself to part with the dragon-skin carryall in which she had hidden 'it'. The portmanteau was, after all, a gift from her dearly departed father, Rudolpho Greengrass.

Astoria perceived her father as a distinguished individual, of great class and opinions. He had instilled in her, and her elder sister Daphne, at a very young age the importance of blood purity, and of the divine right of the Pureblood class. Muggles, and their mudblood spawn, were vile, filthy creatures' intent upon bettering themselves by sullying the name and bloodlines of noble lineages such as hers. Rudolpho Greengrass is, and always has been the driving force behind her beliefs and her actions. He was, as a matter of fact, the very reason behind her excursion to this wretched place.

The Greenglass family, a most ancient and noble bloodline has, over the course of the last couple of hundred years, been plagued with an increasing number of problems when it came to reproduction. Miscarriages, stillbirths, and malformed children had become commonplace in her family.

Her father, Rudolpho, had fervently believed that their family had been cursed. As far as he was concerned, it stood to reason that such a curse could only be the work of a scheming mudblood whore, no doubt hoping to secure a place in their family tree.

No evidence supporting Rudolpho's theory had ever been uncovered. In addition, a culprit was sorely lacked, despite the many years Mr. Greengrass had spent researching the subject in question. Despite this, Astoria took her father's theory as truth. After all, what other reason could explain the progressive unravelling of a lineage kept pure by excessive inbreeding?

Thankfully, her ancestors showed great foresight in these matters. The miscarriages were excused in the eyes of the public through various means, the blame always falling squarely on the shoulders of some innocent bystander. To Astoria's pride, her ancestors had done away with a number of filthy mudbloods in this manner – false accusations of poisoning, battery and the like securing cells in Azkaban for several vermin. As for the malformed children, they were dealt with efficiently and swiftly. No whisper of the truth ever entered the public consciousness.

Astoria intended to keep it that way…

Though she refused to sacrifice her portmanteau in the process.

Cringing, she reached down towards the dragon-skin bag, and unlatched it. From inside the portmanteau, she retrieved what she considered to be her greatest shame.

In addition to the miscarriages, the stillbirths, and the disproportioned newborns, her family had begun to breed an increasing number of squibs. This knowledge, if it ever be made public, would prove disastrous to the Greengrass family. Not only would they be ridiculed by their social peers, but their prominence and their ability to garner favorable matches would greatly diminish.

As such, the family resolved to dispose of any child who could be identified as a potential squib. This was done through the use of a simple spell, which is typically used by healers to gage the potential magic of a newborn witch or wizard. How strongly the child reacts to spell, indicates the strength of their magic. If the child does not react to the spell, than that child will most likely be a squib – though there have been some notable exceptions.

In any case, her ancestors had always erred on the side of caution, and done away with any child who failed to react to the '_praesentia magia' _spell. A sentiment Astoria fully intended to honour as she attempted to remove, with as little contact as possible, the weeping, struggling newborn from her beloved portmanteau.

The child's cries rose as she placed him upon the dusty floorboards. Grey eyes with fat tears rolling down flushed cheeks gazed up at her. A handful of platinum strands, no doubt inherited from his father, peeked out from the thin sheet swaddling the child's form. The boy began to shiver, the cold undoubtedly seeping out of the floorboards. He began to sob in earnest now, chocking upon his own tears from time to time

Astoria remained unmoved.

Instead, she picked up her dragon-skin portmanteau and pulled out her wand. After a quick 'scroufigy', she righted herself, and walked away.

The child's cries reached a crescendo, and Astoria wondered briefly if she should of cast a 'silencio' on the boy. No matter, she told herself, the boy won't last but a few hours in these cool autumn temperatures – he will tire himself soon enough. Either way, it is of no consequence to me.

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**Author's Note: Short I know, but it serves as an introduction. Hopefully its piqued your interest.**


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